


Pie, Winchester Style

by carolej126



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolej126/pseuds/carolej126
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally published in Blood Brothers 4 (Gold'n Lily Press, 2010)</p><p>The Winchesters, and pie, through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pie, Winchester Style

Apple

“Sit down, sweetie,” Mary cautioned, one hand hovering protectively over her active three year old. “Mommy doesn’t want you to fall.”

“’Kay, Mommy,” Dean answered, plopping back down on his bottom.

Mary smiled wistfully, remembering a time not all that long ago when Dean would have been safely secured in his high chair, instead of sitting on a stack of phone books designed to enable him to reach the table.

He’d grown up so fast. She glanced down at her swelling belly. And soon, he’d be joined by a little brother or sister. Dean had been wide-eyed at the news, patting her stomach gently and telling his daddy “there’s a baby in there” over and over again, as if John didn’t know. 

It would probably be a boy, too, if Dean had his way. The three year old had decided that a baby brother was what he wanted, and nothing else would do. Mary smiled. She had tried explaining about babies, that it might be a boy and it might be a girl, and reassured him that he would be a great big brother no matter what. Dean had listened quietly, nodded, and disappeared into his bedroom, where she’d found him a few minutes later making yet another picture for his baby brother. 

She straightened the bib around Dean’s neck and went back to rolling out the dough. Making pie was a messy task for a toddler, but Dean loved it. He giggled as the rolling pin flattened the dough, oblivious to the flour that dusted his cheeks and the cinnamon spice that made his nose twitch. Mary wasn’t, though, more than once smiling at the sweet picture he made, and wishing he could stay that small for just a little while longer.

“Let’s get this in the pan and then…” She let her voice trail off, unable to resist teasing him. “Oh, no, I can’t remember what comes next!” 

Dean laughed, clearly enjoying the silly game. “Apples, Mommy! Apples is next.” 

Mary couldn’t resist laughing in response. “You’re right!” As the little boy watched, she carefully cored and peeled the apples, then cut them into thin slices. 

“Ready to help?” 

Dean reached out, wiggling in place with excitement. Most of the apple slices ended up inside the pie pan, but one managed to make its way to Dean’s open mouth. He nibbled at the sweet white pulp, loudly smacking his lips together in approval. 

“Is that good, honey?” 

Dean nodded, his mouth still busily chewing.

Turning back to the pie, she opened the oven door and placed it inside, careful not to touch the elements. The sudden influx of heat warmed her cheeks, and surprisingly, made her shiver. 

Mary blinked. For a moment, she was taken back in time, her gaze captured by a yellow-eyed demon. Almost ten years had gone by since she’d made that deal. A veritable lifetime of wondering and worrying and waiting. But nothing had happened. And now, with a new baby on the way, she prayed that nothing would.

Shaking off the foreboding feelings, she smiled at her firstborn. 

 

Blueberry

“Have a seat, boys,” Bobby invited, motioning for the two youngsters to join him at the table.

It took a moment for Dean and Sammy to respond, their attention still on the rapidly fading roar of the Impala’s engine, but as soon as the sound disappeared in the distance, they approached the table. 

Bobby smiled encouragingly, not surprised to see the older boy making sure his brother was perched in a chair before claiming one for himself. Dean had been taking care of Sammy ever since the very first time he’d met the two of them. And undoubtedly before that as well.

“Hungry?” he asked, motioning toward the food on the table.

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered politely, the seven year old clearly waiting for an invitation. 

The smaller boy showed less restraint, grabbing for a spoon.

“Sammy,” Dean warned.

Bobby sighed. It hurt to see Dean so reserved around him. It wasn’t like the two of them hadn’t stayed with him before, so he was betting that John had told them to be on their best behavior. He snorted. He’d rather see them acting like little boys.

“Dig in,” he directed, setting an example by scooping up a large spoonful of macaroni and cheese and stuffing it into his mouth. 

As if that had been all it took to get things back to normal, Sammy followed suit, matching Bobby heaping spoonful for heaping spoonful. And Dean, while it took a little longer for him to thaw, he finally relaxed, cleaning his plate and joining into the conversation.

“Seconds?” Bobby asked, offering the now half-empty bowl of mac and cheese. He’d made plenty, along with green beans, rolls, and a Mrs. Smith’s pie, knowing how much little boys like to eat. And it was a good thing, too, because both of them accepted another helping without being asked twice.

It wasn’t because they were that hungry, Bobby knew. He’d learned in his interactions with John Winchester that there were times, in the heat of a hunt, that meals simply weren’t at the top of his “to do” list. And in response, Dean and Sam had been trained to clean their plates, not knowing when and where the next meal would come from. He pursed his lips. If there was one thing he could do while the boys were with him, it would be to make sure they never had cause to worry about being hungry.

“Uncle Bobby, can we have some pie now?”

“Pie,” he repeated, removing his cap and scratching at his head. “Hmmm… I thought those bellies of yours would be full by now.”

“Not mine,” Sammy quickly interjected, patting his stomach. “There’s still lots ‘a room.”

“Yours, too, Dean?” Bobby asked. 

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered, a wide grin on his face.

Bobby just shook his head. “Pie, it is.” He dished up the blueberry pie, making sure that both boys had a large slice of the mouth-watering treat. 

 

Pumpkin 

“Don’t try to sit up by yourself, dude,” Sam admonished, halting Dean’s upward motion before it got too far.

“Now you tell me,” Dean groused, wrapping one arm around his ribs for support.

“As I recall, that’s at least the fourth or fifth time I’ve told you the same thing.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean sighed heavily. It was true. Sam had been telling him to take it easy, to wait for help, all day long. And he had tried, he really had. But he hated being limited like this, and being dependent on someone else.

“How ‘bout you wait until later, when you’re feeling-”

“Now,” Dean insisted. He wasn’t deliberately trying to be pissy. He’d been in bed most of the day, herded back and forth to the bathroom by his brother, given pain pills until he was sick of them, and now, he just wanted that slice of pie that was waiting for him, tantalizing him – no, tormenting him, with its aroma. 

“Are you sure?”

Hell, no, he wasn’t sure. Not about sitting up anyway. But he was damn sure about that pie. 

He clenched his jaw. “Just get me up.” 

“Okay, you ready?”

At Dean’s nod, Sam began to slowly, carefully lift Dean up, tucking two bed pillows behind his back as soon as he reached a semi-upright position.

“Good?”

Dean was positive that “good” didn’t describe how he felt. It was the opposite, in fact. That all-too-familiar white-hot pain was cutting through him like a knife.

“Dean?”

For a moment, all he could do was shut his eyes, ride it out, refuse to let the moan of agony escape his lips. 

“Dean, are you okay?”

He ignored his brother, despite the frantic tone of his voice, concentrating on slowing his breathing. It took a few minutes, but he finally felt the pain ease, and he was able to reopen his eyes.

Sam was hovering just inches from his face, and he barely managed to keep himself from flinching back. That would have been a mistake.

“Dude, space,” he complained.

“Sorry,” his brother said apologetically. “But…” He blew out his breath. “Are you okay?”

Dean shook his head minutely, then, still hoping for that pie, and, honestly, not wanting his brother to feel any worse than he already did about causing him more pain, he gritted his teeth together and managed to get out a single word. “Peachy.”

“Nope, pumpkin,” Sam retorted, chuckling at Dean’s “ha, ha” as he retrieved the Styrofoam container and spoon from the bedside table. 

 

Banana Cream

“Let’s sit over there,” Sam suggested, heading for an empty booth on the far side of the restaurant. He detoured around several tables, bypassed a coffee-laden waitress, and finally sat down on a vinyl bench seat. 

Dean hadn’t said a word about his choice of seats, instead, following behind his brother mutely. Things didn’t change when they reached the booth. Dean simply took his place on the other side of the table.

Sam sighed. It had been over a week, and there had been no change. Sam had been the one to choose the jobs, pick the motels, decide on the restaurants. In short, he’d been making all of the decisions. 

And he hated it. Hated seeing his brother like this. He understood it, at least to a point. Dean was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress, and who could blame him? Sam certainly couldn’t.

His brother had been torn apart by hell hounds, then found himself in Hell itself, subjected to an unending torture that Sam could only imagine. And then, on top of that, after forty years of agony, he’d taken on the role of a torturer himself. 

Sam couldn’t find it in himself to blame Dean for his choice. He suspected he wouldn’t have lasted even half of that time. 

“So, dude, we gonna order or just sit here?”

Coming back to the present, Sam smiled and reached for a menu. As his brother did the same, he quickly studied the choices. Dean was a meat and potatoes man, most of the time, usually in the form of a burger and fries, so he wasn’t surprised when that’s what his brother ordered.

“Coffee for both of you?”

Sam just nodded, watching as the waitress wrote down both of their orders, and then quickly returned with their beverages.

Dean didn’t hesitate, lifting the cup of steaming black coffee to his lips. He inhaled the scent for a moment, then began to gulp the coffee down, despite its temperature.

Sam had seen him do the same thing over and over, in the past few days. Dean didn’t seem to care if he was burning his tongue. In fact, he didn’t seem to react to the temperature at all. Sam was starting to wonder if the hot coffee was, in truth, nothing compared to the scorching heat of Hell.

He shivered. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about.

When their order arrived, Sam dug into his chicken salad, all the while surreptitiously observing his brother. Dean was playing with his food. He’d moved his hamburger three times, apparently not satisfied with its placement on his plate, and was now engrossed in dipping his fries in and out of the ketchup. Five minutes went by, and Dean had yet to take even one bite.

Sam knew if he mentioned it, regardless of his tone, Dean would do one of two things: become defensive or shut down entirely. And Sam didn’t want to see either of those things happen.

Coming to a decision, Sam motioned toward the bathroom, and got to his feet. Dean glanced away from his food for a second, and then went back to perusing his meal.

It wasn’t hard to locate their waitress, or to place another order, one to be delivered to their table. In fact, by the time he’d rejoined his brother, the pie was already on its way.

Dean wasn’t going to be given a chance to say “no.” And he would have, had Sam asked him about ordering dessert. So, Sam just smiled, indicated that the slice of banana cream pie was to be placed in front of his brother, and sat back in his seat.

And smiled at the little spark of interest that showed in Dean’s eyes. 

 

Cherry

“Sit down,” Sam ordered worriedly, one arm wrapped around Dean’s shoulders. “Are you okay?”

It was a reasonable question. Dean had felt the blood drain from his face, and even now he still felt a little lightheaded.

“Dean?” 

“I’m good,” he reassured, lowering himself into a chair with his brother’s assistance. “I think I just got up too fast.” He paused to judge Sam’s reaction before continuing. “You know as well as I do that we haven’t got much sleep in the last couple of weeks. I’m just tired.” 

Sam studied him for a moment, then nodded, apparently believing him. He shouldn’t have, though. It wasn’t true. It had nothing to do with how fast he’d gotten to his feet. Yes, he was tired – exhausted – but that hadn’t been the reason for his reaction. 

It had been a single word, a simple location, spoken by Sam in all innocence.

And the fear it had evoked.

He couldn’t blame his brother. Sam had been working on the computer, trying to keep tabs on what Lucifer, various demons, and the angels were doing. His hand-written notes covered the small table, showing just how hard he’d been working.

So, Dean had suggested he take a break, a few moments away from the hunt. And Sam did, using the laptop for more leisurely pursuits: checking his email, playing a game or two of tetris, looking for a surprise for Dean…

Of course, he hadn’t known about that last one.

Dean still couldn’t believe it. Sam had found a bakery, renowned for its pies, that used only the “freshest ingredients” and “locally grown fruit.” 

They’d have to pick it up, he’d mentioned, but it wasn’t all that far. And, he’d added, while they were there, they could continue their research. It was a win-win situation in his mind.

But for Dean, it was the opposite. 

Where? It had been a simple question, the answer not so much.

He had swallowed hard upon hearing it. And apparently assumed the visage of Casper the Ghost in the process. 

Detroit. The city whose name left more than a bad taste in his mouth. It left a determination… there was no way in Hell they’d be going there. Ever. 

Sam didn’t know about Detroit. He’d been told about Lucifer’s plans for him, or at least, the plans Lucifer had revealed to Dean five years in the future, but that little detail hadn’t made it into the conversation yet. 

It wasn’t that Sam didn’t deserve to know. He did, and Dean knew that he’d have to mention it eventually, or risk Sam finding out from another source, even Lucifer himself. He just knew his brother, knew Sam might decide to march into Detroit in an effort to prove he could withstand Lucifer’s invitation. 

And Dean wasn’t so sure he could. So, for right now, he was content to make sure Detroit never made their list of favorite places to visit. 

He took a deep breath, relieved that the brief dizziness had passed. “I think we’re gonna have to take a pass on that pie. Bobby’s expecting us in a day or two.” 

Or he would be, once Dean called him. 

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “I just thought, you know…” 

“I know.” He nodded. And he did. Sam had wanted to provide him with a special treat, something to enjoy while life was spiraling out of control.

But even Sam’s disappointment couldn’t sway him. Not this time. He wouldn’t let it. “Let’s finish up the research tonight, get a good night’s sleep, and then head back west.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam sighed, turning back to his computer.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t still have pie, though.” Dean grinned. “There’s got to be some good pie between here and Bobby’s.” 

“I guess.” 

No way was he going to let Sam sit there and mope about pie, of all things. With everything that was going on in their lives, pie should be the least of their worries. 

“Come on, dude, find me some pie,” Dean ordered, waving his hand imperiously at the computer. 

At first, Sam just stared at him. Then, the corners of his mouth turned up just a little and he rolled his eyes. “What am I, your slave?” 

“Pie,” he repeated, snapping his fingers. “Now.” 

“Any particular kind, Your Highness?” Sam snerked, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

Dean couldn’t hide his smile any longer. It was too much fun to tease his brother. He leaned back and casually propped his feet on the small table. “Nope.” 

“Okay.” Sam got to work. “How ‘bout along I-90 toward South Bend?” 

“Whatever works.” He shrugged. It was true. He really didn’t care. As long as Detroit was in their rearview mirror. 

~end~


End file.
